I’ll Meet You There (12 page)

“Mom, I said twenty minutes!” he yelled. “
Jesus
.”

“Um.
Not
Mom. Or Jesus.”

“What?” he said. Annoyed, strained.

I pushed open the door. Josh was doing push-ups in the middle of the room, shirtless,
and his prosthesis was leaning against the bed. He was wearing the long athletic shorts
he’d swum in that covered his stump completely. The muscles in his one calf were taut
with the movement, and sweat dripped down his face. Push-ups with one leg looked about
as much fun as push-ups with two legs. He glanced up as I walked in, his eyes widening.
He stayed in the upward position for a second, just looking at me.

It was dumb, us staring at each other like this. I wanted to tell this tongue-tied,
mush-of-a-girl Skylar to take a hike. So he had some muscles. Big freakin’ deal.

“Sorry. I’ll … Marge needs the keys,” I blurted out. “To the … I don’t know. The closet
with the generator? So that’s why I’m here.”

Wow. Awesome, Sky. Way to go.

Josh lowered his knee and kind of sat back so that his leg was bent beneath him, the
extra fabric from his stump pooling on the carpet. “Keys?”

“I guess she gave them to you yesterday?”

“Oh. Shit. I totally forgot about those. Uh … would you mind turning around for a
sec, so I can deal with my gimpy leg?”

“Yeah, sure. Right.” I turned to face the half-closed door, feeling a little bit like
I’d gotten put in the corner.

“Sorry about yelling at you,” he said. “My mom’s been on my case all morning about
some crap she needs cleaned out of the garage.”

“It’s not like you were expecting me.”

“Yeah, well…” There was the sound of some shuffling, then, “Oh, hey, you know what
I ran across last night?”

“Do you mean
ran
literally or figuratively?”

“Ha-ha,” he said.

“Sorry, I couldn’t resist.”

“Guess you’re keeping me on my toes,” he said.

“All five of them.”

Josh laughed. “I walked right into that one—er, limped.”

I kept my eyes on the wall, smiling to myself. I heard the sound of a spray bottle,
shuffling of fabric, then a kind of vacuumized click.

“Found some old letters from you. The ones you sent when I was over there.”

The music suddenly turned off.

“Yeah?”

I’d only sent a few. Mostly when Marge suggested I should. It wasn’t that I didn’t
care. It was just that Josh and I hadn’t been super close. And I’d had no idea what
to talk about, so I’d ended up sending him clips of the Sunday comics or a collage.
He’d always write back, short little messages about the weather and the food and stuff
like that. I kept every letter. Why?

“You can turn around now.”

He was standing by the desk, and he held a paper out to me. “This was my favorite.”

I took it, smiling a little at the familiar collage. I’d cut all these cool street
art photos from different art magazines and glued them onto one thick piece of paper,
then I’d folded it up and written
The Skylar Evans Gallery—Admission: Free.

“Got it the day we came back from a long-ass patrol. It had been like extreme camping.
We’d been away from the FOB for, like, five days or something. Following these crazy
hajjis—er, Afghanis—all around this one little area, runnin’ and gunnin’. And I was
in such a bad mood ’cause we’d lost a couple guys, and I was just tired and had all
this gear that needed to be cleaned for inspection. And then I opened your letter.
Made my day.”

I handed it back to him, my face hot. “The other Marines must have been like, who
is this freak that sends art projects?”

He shook his head. “You’d be surprised at the kinds of mail some of the guys got.”
He chuckled to himself, like he was remembering something.

“What?”

“Let’s just say some of the wives and girlfriends got creative.”

My stomach flipped a little. “Oh.”

He pointed to a tiny hole at the top of the paper. “I had it up near my bed for a
while.”

I brushed my fingers across the collage, touching Away. Touching the not-Creek-View-ness
of it. “I hoped you’d be into it. I was thinking, like, if I were there, what would
I want to see? Chris told me you’d probably prefer
Penthouse
, but I took a chance.”

“Blake had that covered.” Josh laughed at the face I made. “I’m glad you sent me your
art. Gonna be worth a lot of money someday.”

I rolled my eyes. Blushed. “We’ll see.”

He walked over to the bed and pulled a shirt over his head that said
MARINES
in big red and gold letters, standard Josh attire.

“What’s up with you and that Chris dude, anyway?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like, are you together or…?”

“
Chris?
God, no.”

He raised his eyebrows.

“What?” I said.

“Just hard to believe you guys didn’t hook up or whatever.”

“Josh, contrary to what you might think, two people of the opposite sex can be friends
without wanting to jump each other’s bones.”

He grunted.

I didn’t want to think about why he was so curious. Didn’t want to acknowledge the
fizzy feeling buzzing through me.

“What’s an FOB?” I asked.

“Huh? Oh. Forward operating base. It’s like a remote outpost. Not the easiest assignment,
but you see a lot of action.”

“That’s a good thing?”

He shrugged. “At least you know there’s a point to you.”

My eyes caught the crane I’d made out of a napkin that day at the diner. It was sitting
on his nightstand.

“You kept it,” I said. Goofy happy.

He looked over at the crane. Smiled at me. “Yeah.”

I pointed to the photos tacked to the wall above his desk. “These your guys?”

“Yep. This one’s of us around this time last year,” he said, pointing to a photograph
of himself with three other guys, all of them decked out in body armor and helmets.
They held their guns so casually by their sides, as if they were shopping bags.

Behind them was a dusty field with huge mountains towering beyond it. Afghanistan.
So weird, thinking about Josh living in another country. My heart beat a little faster
as I got closer to the thing that had changed him. If I could figure out what made
him tick, maybe the allure would wear off. Then I could go back to thinking he was
an attractive dumbass who would never in a million years keep me up at night.

“Who’s that?” I asked, pointing to the guy Josh was standing next to. Their arms were
around each other, and they looked like they were both mid-laugh.

“My buddy Nick.”

He picked up a keychain lying on his nightstand and held it up for me. I opened my
hand, and he dropped Marge’s keys into it.

“So why didn’t you come in today?” I asked.

He put on his watch, keeping his eyes lowered. “Wasn’t up for it.”

There were dark circles under his eyes and a couple of empty beer bottles on the floor
by his bed, but I decided it wasn’t my business. He’d have to come up with something
better for Marge next time he saw her, though.

I needed a safe topic. Felt like everything I said just brought up the reason he had
those bottles by his bed in the first place. I picked up the dog-eared paperback beside
his alarm clock.
Slaughterhouse-Five
.

“This any good? I keep meaning to read it, but it seems like such a boy book.”

“Yeah. It’s amazing.”

I handed it to him, and he hesitated for a second, like he wanted to take it back,
but then he shook his head. “Read it. Just—don’t lose it. It … belonged to a friend
of mine.”

He looked at the book like it was precious, the kind of thing you keep in a glass
case.
Belonged.
Past tense. I wanted to know why he’d give something like that to
me.

“You sure? ’Cause I never lend books. I’m sort of a Nazi about it if someone gets
even a smudge on the cover.”

“Well, this one’s been to war and back, so I think it can handle you.”

I held the book against my chest. “Thanks.”

“Yeah, sure.”

The dude was a total mystery. I couldn’t picture him sitting anywhere and just reading
a book, yet here I was, borrowing one from him. I looked around the room, searching
for clues. There wasn’t much to see. It was practically empty. It looked totally different
than it had just before he got home, when I was hanging out with Blake over spring
break. I remember he’d wanted to grab a couple of Josh’s CDs, so we’d gone into the
room. Then, there had been posters on the walls of cars and girls—typical Mitchell
fare. Now the walls were bare, except for a few postcards and photos tacked to the
wall and a pile of neatly folded clothes in one corner, a stack of weights in another.

“So you planning on decorating anytime soon?”

“Maybe.” He gestured to the door. “You want a beer or something?”

“Or something,” I said.

“Right—you’re good like that.” He brushed the air with quotes on
good
, and I narrowed my eyes, hackles up. I was getting sick of everyone pointing out
that I was “good.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just … you never screw up, do you?”

“Like how? You mean I don’t get arrested for egging people’s houses?”

That was a Josh Mitchell stunt, circa his sophomore year.

He snorted. “Don’t get pissy.”

“I’m not getting pissy.”

Except that I was totally getting pissy.

“Sky. All I’m saying is, you know, you’re wound a bit tight.”

“Is that a euphemism for
virgin
?”

He held up his hands. “Whoa. I wasn’t going there.” He arched an eyebrow. “But if
you’re up for it—”

“
Ugh
. Thank you,” I snapped.

“For what?”

“Reminding me why you’re such a dumbass.”

It annoyed me that I felt so disappointed. No. I wasn’t feeling disappointment. That
new emptiness in me was relief. Because maybe, if he’d kept surprising me, I would
have made a huge mistake. I mean, there were times in the middle of the night when …
it was just good to have a reminder. I’d figured it out: the Mitchell boys, they brought
out the desperate in me.

chapter ten

Josh grinned, like me calling him a dumbass was some kind of compliment.

“Hey, that’s progress,” he said.

“What?”

“That you need
reminding
that I’m a dumbass.”

I grunted and glanced at the door. “Whatever. I’m on the clock, so…”

He gestured toward the hall. “After you.”

I rolled my eyes at his attempt to be a gentleman, and he sort of sighed-laughed.
I started out just as the door across the hall opened. His mother stood in the doorway,
frowning. Her hair was in a long braid, and she wore a tiny, faded cotton sundress
and a pair of flip-flops. She was super thin and had a slightly distracted air; rumor
had it she was addicted to pain pills. Seeing her in front of me now, I didn’t doubt
it. I wasn’t surprised that she was home in the middle of the afternoon. Blake had
told me she helped their dad with paperwork for his business, but that she spent most
of her time in her room, complaining about her back.

“Oh. Hi, Mrs. Mitchell. I don’t know if you remember me, but I’m—”

“Skylar.” She nodded. “I know.”

I’d only talked to her a few times, when Josh was still in high school and she’d come
by the motel, looking for him. She leaned against the doorway, and her eyes strayed
down to Josh’s leg. She sighed, staring at the metal. I felt Josh stiffen.

“You going to rehab today?” she asked.

He shook his head.

“Then why aren’t you at the Paradise?”

“He’s off today,” I said, surprised at the lie. Josh looked at me out of the corner
of his eye, but I ignored him. “I just came by to pick up Marge’s keys.”

“Huh.” She looked at Josh. “Don’t screw up that job,” she said. “It’ll be damn hard
to find another one.”

Her words felt like a punch to the stomach, and it wasn’t even
me
she was belittling. Josh brushed past her and motioned for me to follow him.

“You gonna clean out that stuff?” she called after him.

“Yes.” Josh didn’t look back at her, but I didn’t need to see his face to know how
pissed he was. He’d practically spit out the word.

Tara was gone and the TV off, but I could hear Katy Perry’s “California Gurls” playing
from inside a room to my right.

Josh’s mom pounded on Tara’s door. “Tara. I’m going over to the garage. Don’t let
your pothead friends burn down my house.”

A muffled “whatever” and then the front door slammed. As soon as his mother was gone,
it felt a bit easier to breathe.

I followed Josh into the kitchen, trying to picture him living in this dismal house.
With all the shut doors and dark corners, I got the sense that the Mitchells didn’t
spend a lot of quality family time together. Maybe all those years when Josh was running
around town, acting like an idiot, he was just trying to find a way to escape. Maybe
that was what all of us were doing, in our different ways.

“Why’d you tell my mom I was off?” he asked.

“She seemed like she was sort of, I don’t know—”

“Riding my ass?”

“Well. Yeah, that’s one way of putting it.”

I leaned against the kitchen counter. Dirty dishes were piled in the sink and an empty
box of Entenmann’s doughnuts sat in the middle of the kitchen table. The stove was
splattered with stains—old pasta sauce and who knew what else. The whole kitchen smelled
like grease and burned toast. After two years in the military, Josh must have been
going crazy, stuck in that house. As if he’d read my mind, he looked at the box of
doughnuts and threw it into a nearly overflowing trash can, cursing under his breath.

“Your little sister’s better than a guard dog,” I said, as another Katy Perry song
filtered through her door and into the kitchen. “I thought I was gonna have to show
her some ID before she let me inside.”